Romantically Incorrect

Love, Perhaps?

Awestruck by Ardor’s etherialities,
Contemplating its concreteness,
Wondering if I truly
Understood.

To me, romance is a dark room,
Illuminated by flashlights and
Flickering light bulbs of
Vicarious experience through
Love songs.

I consider myself a
Fledgling scholar,
An upstart scribe,
But, even in my never-ceasing ponderings
I still know not what it means to love a person
Whose blood run not through my veins.

The only loves I’ve ever known:

Came from my father,
Who put an NES Controller
In my hand,
Just after I’d learned to stop
Picking my nose and
Eating it.
I always wanted to be Mario, ‘cause his name
Starts with “M.”
(Now though,
Because of my perpetual
Root-for-the-underdog mentality,
I prefer his brother.
Besides,
Green is cooler than red.)

Came from my aunt and grandma,
Who mixed flour, eggs, and milk and a bowl,
Creating the best food known to man:
Pancakes!
Golden-brown, flipped and flopped,
Hissing on a hot griddle,
Topped with delectable goodness
That is
Syrup!
So good,
I performed cunnilingus on my plate
To taste all the nectar,
And then,
When everyone slumbered,
Snuck off to the kitchen,
Sipped right from Mom’s syrup bottle,
Long before Three-Six Mafia
Made it a hit song.

From myself,
Who at seven years old,
Wrote a story about an alien and a magic dictionary
(Don’t ask)
Received love bites of
Literary inspiration,
While exhilaration of completion
Rushed through my body,
(Probably as close to sex as I’d ever gotten.)

From a song,
One I’d finally heard at 15,
When Mom FINALLY allowed me to listen to
Albums with “PARENTAL ADVISORY: EXPLICIT CONTENT” warnings
I bought what some call the
Greatest Rap Album,
And when I heard Track 4’s DJ scratches,
Chants asking who the world belonged to,
And the three best verses penned by
Mortal Man,
Like so many young Black boys,
I wrote rhymes running past the margin
Just as my hero did
(However, I moved to poetry,
It suits me better,
And I suck as a rapper.)

But even through my boundless ignorance,
I know loving a woman is much
Different.

The rap lyrics and beats,
In all their
Lesser divinity, probably don’t
Sound as good as
“Hi honey, how was your day?”
After the world serves my ass to me on a
Silver platter.

Platters of pancakes,
Doused with decadence,
Aren’t pleasing to the palate
If they don’t come from
A woman
Who knows how to
Fulfill the most erotic male fantasy:
Slaving over a hot stove, then
Bringing them to you,
Flashing
Pearly whites
And she knows how to make them vegan,
Not only that,
Buys the organic syrup she has to
Empty her bank account for,
Since I’m too health-conscious
(and bougie)
To eat that damn
Mrs. Butterworth.

Worthwhile pastimes they are,
Video games cannot match
Connecting with
A woman
Who finds the land of Hyrule exciting
And laughs as I
Name my Pokémon after rappers
(Or if I never meet that ever-elusive damsel,
I can compromise with one who at least
Doesn’t insult me when
I turn my console on.)

On writing,
It’s all made better from someone
Saying “I love it,”
Wiping the smudges from my looking-glass self,
Or takes out her red pen and reading glasses
When we both know
I have something that
Needs work.
   
    Perhaps one day,
    If Fortune smiles upon me,
    I will experience the emotions
    I’ve inscribed inside my verses.